


On Respecting Boundaries

by come_anyway



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/come_anyway/pseuds/come_anyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just wanted one week where Sherlock didn't interrupt him while he was sleeping, or in the shower, or on a date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Respecting Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Becky for being a brilliant beta! <3

In any given week, John estimated that Sherlock invaded his privacy an average of three times. This was excluding Sherlock’s unintentional breaches of privacy, as John had long ago accepted that the man’s ability to deduce the contents of his phone calls with Harry or the breed of his date’s dog was something Sherlock couldn’t control. He couldn’t help that his mind was constantly in “maximum performance” mode, and while the connection between his mouth and brain could use a new filter, this usually didn’t bug John.

What _did_ infuriate him to no end were the other things he would do, like when Sherlock would barge into the bathroom while John was showering to retrieve hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet.

Or when he’d wake John up in the middle of the night to ask “which vial smells more rancid to you?”

Or when he’d walk into John’s room in the early morning, sending John scrambling to pull up the sheets and cover the middle-third of his body.

Even the less-naked things, like interrupting the last ten minutes of _Doctor Who_ with comments about his latest blog entry (“River Song is obviously their daughter. Now, what did you mean by ‘arrogantly authentic’?”) crossed the line as of late.

But, regardless of the arguments and reminders and angry notes and more arguments about respecting one-another’s privacy and space, John was still surprised every time Sherlock arrived at one of his (previously-unmentioned) dates and dragged him off on a case. Granted, a night out with Sherlock was almost always more fun than the routine dinner-and-a-shag, but it was the principle of the thing.

 

 

“You can’t keep doing this, Sherlock.”

John stood in the entryway to their kitchen, tying a towel around his hips. Moments ago, Sherlock had burst into the previously-locked bathroom just as John was pulling back the shower curtain. He had clutched the semi-transparent plastic to his chest and torso in a fit of pre-teen modesty as his flatmate rummaged under the sink, pulled out a bottle of fuchsia hair dye, smirked at John’s wet hair, and left the room. Sherlock had politely closed the door behind him without saying a word.

“I _need_ to conduct these experiments, John. You know that.” Sherlock was taking a plait of blonde hair held together with a ribbon out of an evidence bag; he placed it on the bare kitchen table and started to paint it with the dye mixture.

John padded over to the table and nudged Sherlock’s elbow with an acid-scarred cutting board. “Don’t do that on the bare wood – it’ll stain. And you know that’s not what I meant.”

Sherlock transferred the sticky strands to the cutting board and continued to paint on the dye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullsh—” John cut himself off and squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers. With his eyes closed, he started again. “Then I will outline what I want in very plain English. I need some privacy, Sherlock. I know you can’t control your brain, but you _can_ control your body. When my door is locked, you will not pick it. When my door is closed, you will knock and wait for an answer before entering. When I go on a date, you will not interrupt it unless there’s an emergency. I’m at my wit’s end, and you won’t like what happens if you do something like that again.”

Overly dramatic, but it seemed appropriate considering who he was talking to.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring at the star-shaped wound on his shoulder. He had to clear his throat before Sherlock snapped out of it, clicking on a hair-dryer and aiming it at the contents of the cutting board.

“Do we understand each other?” John asked.

Sherlock ignored his question over the roar of the hair-dryer’s fan.

John yanked the cord from the electrical outlet and met Sherlock’s now-irritated gaze head-on. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, fine, whatever you want. Now,” he pulled the cord out of John’s hand and thrust it back into the wall, “go and be somewhere else.”

Sherlock turned back to his work, and John stood in the kitchen for a few more seconds before tramping up the stairs to his bedroom. He knew exactly how effective his outline of the rules had been.

Now he just had to figure out what to do when Sherlock inevitably ignored them.

 

John thought about his problem all day, since Sherlock didn’t behave like _normal_ people. After all, this was the man who had tea at Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bed sheet just to spite his brother. So, John traipsing around the flat half-naked wouldn’t evoke the desired conclusion.

John also discarded the idea of disrupting Sherlock’s sleep for several reasons. First, Sherlock kept such irregular hours that it was rare for John to catch him at it. He suspected that Sherlock did most of his sleeping while John was out grocery shopping or meeting friends at the pub. In any case, they didn’t fall under anything people would consider “normal” or “well-adjusted.”

Second, Sherlock’s bouts of unconsciousness were often so exceptional that John didn’t want to lose those random hours of peace and quiet. He got his best blogging done in the still of 221B, watching Sherlock’s chest rise and fall between sentences.

Finally, when Sherlock did deign to sleep, it was almost never in his bedroom. John would usually find him sprawled across the sofa or, on one memorable occasion after his return, slumped against the doorframe to John’s room. Sherlock had slept through John getting out of bed, and he hadn’t moved when John had stroked his hand through dark curls, but he was gone when John returned from the bathroom a few minutes later.

So, barging in on a sleeping Sherlock to ask “Does the title ‘The Solitary Motorcyclist’ sound too American to you?” was out of the question. Breaking into the bathroom wouldn’t work, partially because Sherlock never locked the door and partially because it was more likely to embarrass _John_. So, too, was interrupting Sherlock on a date. John had never seen Sherlock express interest in romantic companionship, his work coming first, last, and usually in the middle. In fact, the only interest he hadn’t received with disdain had been from Irene Adler. Even then, John now recognized that it hadn’t been romantic attachment that threw Sherlock off his game.

It wasn’t just the bumbling over encountering someone who matched him in IQ points and cleverness. There had been an underlying embarrassment at Irene’s attention, especially when she had shown up at their flat. After all, though they had exchanged flirtatious comments (which _still_ gave John a queasy feeling in his stomach when he thought about it), he hadn’t gloated when Irene had kissed his cheek during the Bond Air deduction.

And the few times John had had women over to the flat, Sherlock had practically leapt out of his skin if they demonstrated any physical affection. One evening after the Pool, John and Sarah had been watching _Doc Martin_. When he had pecked Sarah on the cheek after an especially funny line, he had noticed Sherlock avert his eyes. Then, when Sarah twisted in her seat to kiss him full on the lips, he had noticed the pink tinge that crept onto Sherlock’s cheeks before he fled the flat, muttering some excuse about a body in the morgue. To this day, he didn’t remember the episode’s plot or what Sarah had said when he abruptly stopped the kiss (they broke up a few weeks later), but he did remember how Sherlock forgot his coat when he ran out the door.

So, when John got into bed that evening, he had a plan – and maybe he’d get to have a little fun with it.

 

John knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. Sure enough, Sherlock showed up the next night at the restaurant where John had met his last-minute blind date, a young nurse named Jenny.

“I determined that the woman had syphilis and had recently dyed her hair before her accident.”

Jenny paused with a spoonful of soup halfway to her mouth. “Accident?”

“Autoerotic asphyxiation. Not a murder after all.” Sherlock flicked his eyes over to meet John’s; they weren’t even trying to hide the mischief and mirth their owner was feeling.

John would have to be a better actor, which would be easy enough since he had played this scene many times before. “Can we have this conversation later?” he hissed. “Remember the talk we had yesterday?”

Sherlock’s brows shot up on his forehead in mock surprise. “Oh! I interrupted a date, a _gain_. How terrible.”

John wrinkled his brow and gave him the look which made the men at Baskerville do what he wanted. “Leave. Now.”

“Of course! _So_ sorry.” This comment was directed toward Jenny who was watching them, looking mildly amused. “I’ll just be going.”

Sherlock turned on his heel and left the restaurant with an unmistakable bounce in his step. He flashed John a wide grin and a wink as he went out the door. In that, John caught a glimpse of the little boy who must have constantly tormented the Holmes Manor’s staff. He barely managed to contain an answering smile.

John turned back to Jenny, who had once again picked up her spoon. “My ridiculous flatmate,” he said.

That seemed to satisfy her curiosity, and they resumed their dinner. They had absolutely nothing in common, but that was all right. After all, compatibility wasn’t what he’d been looking for when he’d asked for Mike’s help that morning.

 

John had met Mike for coffee before his friend started his shift at Bart’s, and John knew he’d never be able to live the conversation down. After talking for a few minutes about Sherlock’s latest cases and Mike’s latest squabble with his wife, John couldn’t stall any longer.

“You know all the comings and goings at Bart’s, don’t you? Who’s single, who’s married, all that?”

Mike had chuckled. “I might.”

“Well,” John cleared his throat, “would you know any single women who like being very… public?”

“Not sure what you mean, mate,” Mike had replied, taking a sip of his coffee.

“You know… someone who doesn’t mind people… watching.”

Mike had choked on his drink, partially from surprise and partially from laughter. “You’re joking.”

John had pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders. The café suddenly seemed too hot.

“I thought you’d settled down in your old age, but Three Continents Watson rides again, eh?”

“Do you know someone or not?”

Mike had grinned. “I might know a girl.”

 

That girl had been Jenny, a nurse in the E.R. who had been caught not once, but on five separate occasions, snogging various members of the hospital staff on the stairs, in the storage cupboard, and on empty patient beds. Mike said that she was an excellent and well-liked nurse, so she never seemed to get into trouble for her mischief.

For John’s purposes, she was perfect, and he knew Mike had set him up with the right woman when he’d suggested they go back to his flat “for a drink.”

“Will your flatmate be there?”

“He might,” John said, holding open the cab’s door. “And I apologize in advance, but he sometimes… gets in the way.”

“That’s all right,” Jenny giggled. “We can have fun anyway.”

Jenny demonstrated her desire to “have fun” in the taxi home, but John managed to fend off most of her advances (other than a hand high up on his thigh). However, once he opened the door to 221B’s sitting room, he relented. She pounced as he shut the door behind them, kissing with too much tongue and teeth.

They stood just inside the sitting room for a minute before John heard a tentative cough. The never-tentative Sherlock was sitting in his leather armchair, staring pointedly at the computer in his lap.

Jenny buried her face in John’s shoulder in mock embarrassment.

“Hi, Sherlock,” John said. He consciously moved his left hand from Jenny’s waist to a spot slightly lower on her body. She made a high-pitched laugh into his neck. “We’re just going to have a drink.”

Sherlock made to move from his chair. “I’ll just—“

“No, no – don’t get up. I’m sure you’re doing important things on _my_ laptop.” He quirked an eyebrow. “No need to move – we’ll respect your _privacy_.”

Sherlock glared but stayed in his chair as John detached himself from Jenny and moved to pour them both a glass of wine. She sat down on the sofa at the other end of the room, and when John sat, too, she scooted over to wrap her leg around his.

They chatted for a few minutes, mostly about the dinner they had just eaten. John listened as the tapping on his computer returned to Sherlock’s normal, break-neck speed, and then he made his move. Setting down his wineglass, John moved his hand to stroke the knuckle of his index finger up Jenny’s stocking-clad leg.

That was all the invitation she needed. She swiveled on the sofa and sat in John’s lap, her bent knees straddling his thighs. She attacked his mouth, thrusting her tongue and nipping his bottom lip.

Quite frankly, John hated it. He hated the way she possessively wrenched her fingers into his hair and ground down onto his unexcited lap. If he had intended to see this girl in the future, he might have told her so; she was a nice and intelligent girl, but she had a few things to learn about a proper kissing technique.

But, none of that mattered; he simply had a point to make. John returned the kiss, angling his head so that their noses didn’t mash together, and he kept his eyes open to watch Sherlock.

At first, Sherlock stared fixedly at the laptop, though he had stopped typing; his cheeks were turning a delicate shade of pink. John had to close his eyes in a wince (a too-hard nip to his upper lip), and when he opened them again, he found Sherlock staring at him.

Their eyes met, and John held his gaze even as he continued to kiss Jenny. Sherlock’s face was carefully blank, but John saw the flush creeping down his neck.

Jenny began kissing down his jaw and lower, biting in a way that was still more painful that pleasant. As she reached his collar, she moved her hands from where they were ripping out his hair to unbutton the top of his shirt. She slid her hand across his chest, and John saw Sherlock flinch and look away before turning back. His face had hardened into a stare that would have looked defiant to anyone else.

However, John had known Sherlock for over three-and-a-half years. He secretly prided himself in knowing his flatmate better than anyone, including Mycroft. So, when Sherlock stared at John with that stony look in his eye and his chin titled slightly upward as if in challenge, John felt ashamed.

 

In his unconscious Study in Sherlock, John had seen, and caused, that expression on two unforgettable occasions.

The first time was several years ago, about a month after the Pool. They had been walking down the street and arguing about the motivation of a serial killer who had just been apprehended in France. Sherlock had just made some remark about John’s self-evident “idiocy,” and John, in anger, had said, “Love can make you do some pretty crazy things – not that you’d have a clue about any of that.”

Sherlock stopped walking in the middle of the street, and John was a few steps ahead before he noticed. Seconds later, Sherlock had hailed a taxi, and John saw that defiant look on his face as the cab pulled away from the curb.

The second time had been when Sherlock had returned from the dead. John had been in his grubby new flat, sitting much as Sherlock was now. He had been trying to think of something, _anything_ to write in his blog to appease Ella. Instead, he found his gaze drawn to the hit counter, still stuck at 1895, and how he couldn’t reset it because that would be like erasing another little part of their life together.

Then there had been a knock on the door, and he had ignored it, convinced it was the landlord asking for the rent again. The knocking was followed by a rattle in the lock, and John was on his feet to give the bastard a piece of his mind when the door had burst open and Sherlock stumbled into the room, dropping his lock-picking set on the floor.

He had been skinnier than ever, his shirt clinging loosely to his less-defined chest. He’d gained dark circles under his eyes which matched John’s own, and he was sporting a shorter ginger haircut that was just beginning to curl again. His coat, of infinitely less quality than the Belstaff, was dirty and ragged at the cuffs. But, he was unmistakably Sherlock.

Straightening up, he closed the door behind him. Then, he had smiled one of those rare Sherlock smiles, the one John hadn’t been able to picture except while dreaming.

“John. I’m back.”

John had strode forward and punched Sherlock squarely in the jaw. The punch sent Sherlock to the floor, sprawled over the threadbare, landlord-provided rug. He had sat there for a long minute, and then he had pushed himself up; he stood tall with his fists clenched loosely at his sides, his features hardened in challenge.

The next second, John found himself sobbing into Sherlock’s chest. His fists scrunched into his shirt which reeked of cigarettes and the Tube and _Sherlock_ , and the man himself had his arms hovering awkwardly at his back until he finally moved them to rub circles over the fabric of John’s own too-loose shirt.

They had stood there for a long time, until John had stopped sniffling and Sherlock’s fingers had crept into the hair at the base of John’s skull as though they belonged there. Finally, when John had managed to uncurl his fingers from Sherlock’s shirt, he touched Sherlock’s jaw where he could already see the beginnings of a nasty bruise. “Let’s get some ice for that, all right?”

Sherlock had looked down at him and smiled. “Yes, John.”

 

Now, five months later, John couldn’t believe what he had missed.

He took Jenny’s wrist which, by this point, was trying to untuck the shirt from his trousers. Simultaneously, he moved in his seat so that she had to dismount his lap or risk being dumped onto the coffee table.

“What’s wrong?” she said, straightening her skirt and refluffing her hair.

“I…” Sherlock was still looking at him. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.”

John got up to retrieve her coat. He met her at the door where she was standing, watching Sherlock who was still watching John. As he handed her the coat, she said, quietly enough so it wouldn’t carry across the room, “I know Mike told you all about me, but I’m not okay with making ‘flatmates’ jealous. Don’t call me.”

He began to mutter an apology, an explanation of how he’d been trying to teach Sherlock a lesson on respecting boundaries and it had all gone so wrong… but she had already opened the door and was making her way down the stairs.

John shut the door behind her and moved fully into the sitting room, sagging down into his own armchair. He cradled his head in his hands and closed his eyes; he could still feel Sherlock’s boring into the top of his head.

“Listen, Sherlock… I’m sorry. I don’t know what – well, I _do_ know what I was thinking. I was just so sick of you barging in on me all the time, so I thought I’d get back at you and… I remembered how uncomfortable you were around Irene, so… I’m so—“

He stopped when he felt hands tugging on his arms. He raised his head to find Sherlock squeezing into the chair, kneeling astride his lap like Jenny had a few minutes ago. Sherlock slid his right hand into John’s still-unbuttoned shirt, placing it over his heart so that his fingertips just touched the edge of scar tissue. His thumb smoothed over the sparse hair on his chest.

Sherlock’s other hand threaded through his hair, and then he leaned in and pressed his lips to John’s. It was a simple, closed-mouthed kiss, warm and not a bit tentative. It conveyed their entire relationship, where they did nothing cautiously and every major decision was made with the other’s welfare in mind. John felt foolish that he hadn’t seen this night coming, hadn’t hurried its arrival, hadn’t recognized the subtle shifts in their relationship that had started way before Sherlock’s fall.

So he kissed back just as gently, wrapping his arms around his friend’s shoulders and putting every apology and repressed emotion into their contact. For the first time since their reunion, everything felt completely right.

Sherlock broke off the kiss and leaned back into John’s arms. Today, his eyes were gray with flecks of John’s own blue, and they crinkled in a smile. John felt Sherlock’s breath rumble through his back as he said, “I’ll still interrupt your dates.”

John laughed. “I can live with that. After all, that’s what happened on our first.”


End file.
